Something moves in the night, A rustle in dry grass. It pauses As far off A coyote cries And next door A donkey brays in concern. A moment. Two moments. Then it unfreezes And picks its way once more Through the darkness, Searching For food For shelter For its mate. A slave to instinct And the cycle of life.
You come to me in darkness, Shucking your clothes Like a layer of skin. You slip between the sheets, The bed creaking With each minute shift. Your hand finds its rest At the curve of my waist And you exhale fully, The breath of the contented.
The muse whispers As a lover into your ear. Her fingers trail Down your skin, Sending a shiver of words Crawling across your brain, Firing synapses Into the heat of creation. Until At last You explode, And pour forth Your orgasm In an ecstasy of ink.
Living to work Working to live, An unbalanced circle That takes more than it gives. Struggling to make it Through another day, Too tired at the end To enjoy the pay. Hidden from the sun Shut behind closed doors, Saddling ourselves with baggage That pulls us to the floor. A dozen squeaks of hate For every squeak of joy, And the constant question in the background Surely life must mean more.
naked moonlight kisses the darkness slides between bare branches of hulking trees like a lover who is here and yet absent bestowing their touch but bereft of intent.
hold hold fast gather your sorrow gather your pain gather your anger weave it together as one a rope to lash yourself to the mast hold fast and ride out the storm ride out the fury ride out the rabidity until the sun breaks upon the horizon and you find yourself alive a survivor of this tempest we call life and where you can smile at last.
for an artist every day is art and every moment becomes the media with which we paint our vision of it. every sight every sound every taste every touch every pain every pleasure, it is all the magic we use to weave words paint pictures sing songs. and what starts as one thing can suddenly or even over time evolve into something quite different. for in the end what we do is a mystery even…
she sits down at her desk and forgets what she was about to do. she stands to leave the room and forgets where she was about to go. she picks up the phone and forgets who she was about to call. she takes out her pen to write and forgets what she was about to say. she loses herself slowly and forgets what she was about to be.
